The Choir III

Little could I have known, an innocent boy from Indiana (okay, graduate student) that joining the choir would have impacted me so much. Still, my relationship with Roddy was much more than sexual. The boy soprano found joy in all things in a way that was quite frankly contagious. He had found a way to turn a first encounter into a partnership the benefited us both in multiple ways. He was doing swimmingly in math. I was earning a bit of extra cash: the checks for 50 pounds sterling arrived weekly. And of course, neither of us had any interest in stopping our non-stop sex. He would show up each Wednesday (half day) and Saturday afternoon and after a good session of math, we would quickly pull off our clothes and explore our passion with eager hands and mouths, sucking, licking and finally buggering each other with gusto. One Saturday several weeks after our first encounter, and after a vigorous session, Roddy sat naked astride my thighs, fondling my semi erect but spent penis.

“You have a lovely cock, Mickey.”

“So do you, Roddy. I’ve grown especially fond of its lovely little cover. It’s one of my favorite things, peeling back your foreskin with my tongue.”

“Mine, too, Mickey.”

“So, tell me,” I asked as I stroked his shoulders and belly, “How is it that you’re such an expert at sex?”

“Private tutoring, of course. I came to the Cathedral school at 9. The older boys didn’t take much notice of me then, but at 11 I caught the eye of the head chorister. Nigel Williams, he was. He would keep his voice to 15, but he seduced me when he was 14. He started with a trip to a snack bar in town, and ended up with his cock up my ass. But don’t misunderstand me. I loved every moment of it. And I worshipped every hair on Nigel’s body, from his blond mop to the fuzz on his legs.”

“So, what did you do?”

“Everything. Nigel knew everything. He always believed his Dad was a poufter, ‘cause he learned a lot of what we did from his Dad’s gay porn videos. He’d burn copied and kept them in the lock at the foot of his bed. It’s kind of funny—Nigel told me that when he was my age, he was the special boy of the senior chorister, but all he knew how to do was a bit of groping and whacking off. Obviously Nigel raised the standards. He could suck and fuck and revive a dead man, I swear it. I stopped at esphyxiation. God only knows why anyone would try that. Actually, when his voice broke his father got him into Eton, and he was sent down after he almost hung one of the younger boys.”

“I could never do anything to this lovely throat,” I said, stroking his neck to his chin, “Except perhaps this, “ as I leaned in and began to kiss neck, sliding to his ear, which I both nibbled and bathed with the tip of my tongue. My right hand found his silken ball sack, and in no time we were 69ing. A third ejaculation would leave me raw, but Roddy would be up to another fourth or fifth.

“Oh, next weekend is a long weekend. I have an extra special treat. Will you be around?” Roddy asked, as he tied up his Adidas.

“Yes. Actually, it’s a light weekend. My papers are graded and my research chapter is into Dr. Rubineus. Usual time?”

“No, a bit earlier. Maybe about 10. Can you save me more than an hour or so? It will be worth your while. See you tomorrow.” And with that, my lithe young lover was gone.

Sunday before church we sat and joshed. Simon came along. His curiousity seemed palpable. I took a good look at him. Perhaps he was Roddy’s special friend—they had a special closeness, as if Simon were the mirror side of Roddy. Where Roddy laughed easily and was voluble, Simon had a certain shy reserve, as if he were listening to more than your voice . . . perhaps your heart. Roddy’s hair was straight and dark brown, given to falling over his eyes. Simon’s was pale blond—not yellow but more like champagne, with soft waves framing his face. Where Roddy had lovely hazel brown eyes, Simons were icy blue, fringed with dark lashes. Where Roddy’s skin was honey colored, Simon’s was strawberries and cream, smooth white tinged with a rosy glow. Where Roddy’s expressive mouth often smiled to reveal a row of healthy white teeth, held in the silver bounds of his braces, Simon’s mouth was small and rosy, a puckered bow, given to sweet little sideways smiles punctuated with delicious little dimples on either porcelain chin. Both were lithe, but Roddy exuded a certain athleticism, whereas Simon reminded me of nothing so much as a little white bunny, waiting to be scooped up. Perhaps that Sunday the urge tugged a bit at my heart, the urge to protect him. Or tossle his lovely head of hair. Or slip my tongue between his lips like strawberries. I watched them as they lined up, but it was Simon, and not Roddy who looked back to see if I was watching. When I smiled at him, he ducked his head, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and smiled his sly little dimpled smile as if to himself.

Monday’s rehearsal flew by, and when Wednesday came, I got a call from Roddy, calling from the house master’s apartment.